Give and Take

Over the past few weeks, I have spent a lot of time with family. My siblings and I have stayed around the hospital for three weeks, moved my dad's bedroom downstairs, set up aides around the clock, worked with four different doctors, with nurses, physical therapists, and agencies. We've stocked the larder, bought equipment, sorted and re-sorted pillboxes, asked a million questions and forgotten to ask a million more, and seen things we'd rather not have seen. Hopefully, things will go smoothly so that my dad can resume his very active life.

I've also been dealing with a personal issue in the midst of all of this, and what I've come to realize about myself is that although I'm very good at taking care of people, I'm no good at having people take care of me. I don't like for people to feel sorry for me or worry about me. I don't like for them to be gentle or tender. But I am also realizing that I may need to accept these gestures because I need them. In the same way others have needed my gestures, I need to be coddled and cared for when I'm down or worried or sad.

As I've said to many a friend in crisis, "There's so little others can do. Please let me fix dinner, call or send a card. Please know that I'm thinking about you." And even though it's not about me when I say that, I know that people need to show their love and support of others, and I'm going to work on allowing that in to my life right now.

I'm opening myself to the care of others if I need it, grateful that others have opened themselves to me.

Jan Phillips Part 3

Bet you thought I'd exhibited my usual distracted behavior and moved on from Jan Phillips. Quite the contrary. I'm immersing myself in her work and feeling exhilarated!

I am listening to one of her CD series entitled, "Creating Every Day". One of the stories she tells is about a sister in the parochial school where she attended high school. For an entire semester, instead of having the students recite a prayer as most of the nuns did, this teacher had a poem for each day of the week. e. e. cummings, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Shakespeare and two others. By the end of the semester, the students were proud of their ability to recite from memory these five poems.

The sister also took advantage of times when the kids were acting up and rowdy. Instead of continually saying, "Cool it, calm down", begging "C-l-a-s-s", or threatening punishment, she had them take out a pencil and paper and write for a few minutes about what they were feeling at the moment.

In my opinion, this teacher was brilliant. She took two times of the day when kids tune out and made them something special. I have a friend who is a first-grade teacher, and when I told him about these ideas, he decided to immediately start doing them in his classroom. Do we ever need more teachers like this.

There's more to come about Jan. Stay tuned.

Cloud Nine

My life has been composed of ups and downs lately. Way ups and deep downs. But tonight was definitely a way up.

When we were at the workshop with Jan Phillips, she told us that when we want something, we should picture ourselves already having it. What would our emotions be? What would having it satisfy in us? The type of visualization that is popular today.

A few weeks ago I submitted a short piece to a contest at my local bookstore, Quail Ridge Books. The theme was a high school reunion, and author Elizabeth Berg was going to judge the entries and read the winner when she came to promote her new book. I felt that my story was a winner, as good as anything I had ever written. So I decided to try out Jan's theory.

I started imagining Berg saying the title of my story. I thought about how excited I would feel, proud, and affirmed. Every time I pictured the moment, I grinned. And today I realized that even if I didn't win, that the imagining had brought a great deal of satisfaction and pleasure to me.

At the store, the third place and second place were announced. Then Rene, the events coordinator at the store, said that Berg had had problems with her voice and was not going to be able to read the winner's story, so the winner would have to read it. She fumbled around, trying to find the entry, realizing that the winner would not have brought a copy. The tension was high in the room, and I called out that it was worse than American Idol. Finally, she had the paper in her hand and read the title of my story. And all the emotions that I had felt thinking about that moment were magnified ten-fold.

I almost choked and cried reading the story in front of the crowd of over 60 people. What an exciting night, and I got to live through it several times, thanks to Jan's suggestion. I'm on cloud nine.

Empathy vs Sympathy

I've discovered this week once again how wide the gap is between feeling sympathy for someone and feeling empathy for them.

I can't tell you how many times a friend or acquaintance has told me that their older relative has broken a hip. It has come to represent the first step toward a downhill descent. I've expressed my sympathy and moved on.

Last Friday, my father, who is eighty-seven, fell down two steps and landed on his hip. He has gone up and down those same steps many times a day for forty years. He counts them to make sure he hits every one. He's not sure quite how he missed the step, whether he tripped or blacked out or just miscounted. Someone was at his front door, and by some unimaginable stroke of luck my dad had in his hands a set of keys that went to his keyed deadbolt. He was able to inch over to the door, reach up and unlock it, and let the man in. After trying to get my dad up and seeing how serious the situation was, they called my brother who called an ambulance.

Because my dad has two artificial heart valves and takes coumadin, he had to lie motionless in a hospital bed for four days before they could do the surgery. He became more and more upset as the days went by, and finally I asked him what was the most important thing he was worried about. He said, "Not being able to take care of myself."

My dad delivers Mobile Meals. He goes to work most days, to Rotary every Monday, sings in the choir. He makes pounds of potato salad, pimento cheese and cakes to take to shut-ins and bring to family gatherings. Most holidays he has us all to his house and does a large part of the cooking and setting up. He still drives everywhere, even to Raleigh and the beach. This is a real blow to his independence.

I trust that my dad will recover from this, but it's going to take time. And now, when someone says, "My father/mother/grandparent broke a hip," I'll know that the trial is just beginning and that they need my healing thoughts and cards and calls for some time to come. I've got empathy.

San Diego and Jan Phillips Part 2

I can't remember being in a city that has as many blooming plants as San Diego. Everywhere there was beauty and color, and for me the fruitfulness became a metaphor for the workshop.

On Saturday morning, we began the real work of determining one thing that we could be successful at workshopping. One woman, a stylist, wanted to work with cancer patients on their inner and outer beauty. Another woman had recently found the daughter she gave up for adoption and wanted to help others make the transition go smoothly. When it came to me, I really couldn't think what I wanted to do. I said something vague and tearful about working with children, then said that I sort of thought I had already worked with children, and finally sat red-eyed and puzzled. "We'll get back to you," Jan said, and we moved to the next person.

All morning as others worked out the details of their workshop, I kept trying to think about what it was I wanted to do. At lunch my husband reminded me that the whole reason I came was because I wanted to create a space for workshops, not just be a good facilitator. And I think he went and tattled to the teacher because after lunch, she said, "Do you have a confession to make?"

When I think of the word "facilitator" I immediately go to the root word, facile, which means easy in French. And I think of facilitation as the process of making things simple for others, not just at the moment of participation, but after they leave the workshop. What I want to do is make it easy for the facilitator by creating a space where they can work their magic.

So this was my inner "aha" moment. For the rest of the weekend I was able to move forward with this in a very big way. This was the seed and the bud of an idea; the flowers will come later.

A nougat from Jan: When something becomes an ordeal in your life, do three things:

1. Ask yourself, "Why did this happen for me?" and,
2. What is the reason that I invited this into my life?
3. Dwell in gratitude for where you stand right now.

And another thing she said: "Don't ask yourself what Jesus would do. Ask what a fully realized you would do."

My father broke his hip today, and at 88 years old this is no small problem. He lives in a house that has many steps leading up to his bedroom and there will be logistical problems when he comes home. I'm off to see about him tomorrow, and will try to post Part 3 from the hospital. But I'm not finished with the story of our trip, so hold on to your horses until I can get back.

San Diego and Jan Phillips Part 1

Have you missed me? I've got a lot to tell you. I'm going to tell it in installments, and here's the first of them:

A couple of years ago I was searching for workshops that would combine photography and writing and came across this website for Jan Phillips. I subscribed to her Museletter, and have kept up with what she does through reading it.

I saw that she was teaching what she called a "Facilitator Workshop" and thought that might take us on our way to leading workshops as a way of living. So we took a grand leap of faith, booked reservations, and went to San Diego to spend a few days sightseeing and the weekend with Jan.

We had gotten directions to her house from Mapquest, and had a moment of panic when we couldn't find her house number on the street. We called, and we were on the wrong street. We got there, relieved that Jan was a real person!

Remember that we knew nothing about Jan but what I'd read about her on her website. We sat in her office/den with four women, Jan, and us. The first thing she did after welcoming us was announce that she was going to read a poem. Remember this post? That is the poem she read. I was stunned.

Then we proceeded to build what she called our story by answering the following four questions. I'll leave you with these questions for tonight.

1. What was something in your life that you considered a curse that turned into a blessing?
2. Talk about a time that you felt transformed by an experience or a person.
3. What is something that you're afraid of?
4. What is something that you're really proud of?

How It's Working - The Kaizen Way

Remember The Kaizen Way?

Here's how it's working for me right now:

First, I've started lifting weights to get rid of some of the flab on my arms. My sister suggested this, and though I can't see improvement right now, she assures me that I will. A few nights, before going downstairs to do this, I've thought about adding something. Yoga, lunges, something simple. Immediately I didn't want to do anything so for now I'm sticking with the fifteen reps of four different lifts.

Secondly, I've been meditating twenty minutes a day. I started at ten minutes, moved to eleven, then to twenty. Again, several nights I haven't been ready to stop when the timer went off, but every time I think of adding ten minutes, I balk at going downstairs. So twenty minutes it is.

Lastly, I want to explore where my two interests, writing and photography, intersect. I thought about going back to school. But I found all kinds of excuses why this wouldn't work: no time, no money, finding a parking space at the university, going out at night, blah blah blah. But three days felt manageable, so I'm going to take a weekend workshop on facilitating workshops. Now that sounds strange, I guess, but the facilitator has assured me that we will explore my desire to combine my two interests into something that would make a good workshop, and that by the end of the weekend I will know how to conduct it effectively.

Going to this workshop pushes me. I do not know the woman, I don't know anyone who has taken her classes. But something about her has seemed intriguing to me since I first ran across her name. I was doing a search using the words "photography+writing+workshop" and she came up. And her book, God Is At Eye Level, is an example of the type of thing I'd like to do.

I'm staying at the level where "fight or flight" doesn't set in, and it's working.

Laugh if you want to

Monday our internet connection went down. Today, my husband opened an email from our daughter, clicked on the link, wondered why she was sending him information on Viagra. An hour later he tried to send me two emails and they never came through. He's on the phone now with tech support.

Hmmm. Mercury. And sure enough, here's what I read:

At 04:06 UT (Universal Time) Sunday, April 18th, 2010, Mercury the wise communicator—and universal trickster—turns retrograde at 12°37' Taurus, in the sign of the Bull, sending communications, travel, appointments, mail and the www into a general snarlup!

As long as we don't communicate with anyone, travel anywhere, make any appointments, or use our computers expecting them to work until May 11, we'll be fine. Jeez. And yes, I know the picture is of the moon, but my camera lens doesn't reach to Mercury.

One little girl's determination

Today I was in a craft store, and there was a mother with four children around the age of four or five. They were following her; all of them had their backs to me. In the midst of them, was a little girl with pink crocs, straight blond hair swinging side to side as she walked with her crutches. Maybe muscular dystrophy or cerebral palsy, but something had rendered her legs weak and unable to support her. I never saw her face, but in her movements there was determination and pride; she was keeping up with the crowd.

Something about that little girl has touched me deeply. I know that children are cruel, and worry that she will be ridiculed and hurt because of her disability.

I thought that maybe a part of every child's education should include monthly "disability days" where one-half of the class becomes blind or deaf or disabled for a day and the other half helps them make it through. Where parents of children who have committed suicide because they couldn't live with the jaunts and judgment of other children another day come and speak of their pain and loss. Where young people who have succeeded in spite of their setbacks and disabilities come and speak.

We need to use every tool at our disposal to develop compassionate children who will become accepting and caring and nurturing and non-judgmental. Who will reach out to those who are different instead of tease them. Who will seek out children who have been hurt and abused instead of shunning them.

My heart aches for the children, like that little girl, who are trying to keep up in spite of what life handed them. I hope and pray that the world will be kind to them.

R&R

Since finishing up with the exhibit a week ago Friday, I've been resting. Resting my brain, that is. I haven't posted in over a week; I spent one whole day of the weekend reading; and except for editing a story I haven't done any writing either.

Only in recent years have I realized that it's important to "lie fallow" for a short period of time in order to be productive. I have to let my mind rest (my body usually seems ready to go!) and let new ideas percolate. I need to assess the last big thing I did, consider the successes and think about what needed improvement.

Yesterday, my partner in the exhibit asked if I wanted to show some of my work at a local community center in May. The old me would have said yes and then felt the stress of pulling it together. The new me said no.

In my down time, I've discovered some things about myself that wouldn't have come up if I'd moved to the next big thing. I've read a couple of good books, made notes of ideas for the writing I'll undertake. I've increased my nightly meditation time and added a little exercise to my day. (Have you ever noticed that meditation is only one letter different from medication??!)

I don't feel antsy yet, so a few more days of quiet are in order. I'm wondering how you build up muscles for the things you undertake or face in your life.

The Exhibit

After all the anticipation, the reception for the exhibit "Picturing Moore Square" was Friday night. The gallery was absolutely stunning. My husband had hung the photographs so that they appeared to be suspended in air. He had removed all the superfluous lighting, and arranged the remaining lights so that the photographs were featured perfectly. My friend Trisha made at least five different kinds of desserts, and decorated the table with little pieces of chocolate and sunflower cutouts. A church friend set up the AV equipment so that we had our video with head phones and music. Two people brought flower arrangements. My daughter Jean was able to come, bringing the most beautiful guest book.


In addition to all of that, the husband of my partner in the exhibit made one of his special homemade dark beers and pumped it from a keg.

At least 150 people came to the event. And this is what really made my heart sing, for without them, it would have just been a beautiful room. Beautiful but empty.

I don't know the last time I felt that exhilarated about the way something came together. It was a magic night, and I did it. That is, I did it with a little help from my friends and family.

The Journey, by Mary Oliver

On Sunday, I decided to take a break from getting ready for the photo exhibit. I had been in high gear, and frankly not very pleasant to be around for a few days. I thought some retail therapy might be in order. At the clothing store, I noticed a little book on the table. I impulsively bought it.

That night, I got into bed and picked up the book. Here is the first poem:

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Mary Oliver

I was dumbstruck.

I've read the poem several times now, and each time something new comes to me. I'm not ready to talk about all my feelings here and now. Maybe later. But the first poem has impacted me significantly.

P. S. I have a book of poems by Mary Oliver, and can't find it right now. But in that odd way things have of happening, I got this in a daily email: "Listen - are you breathing just a little and calling it a life?" - Mary Oliver

Ruffled feathers

See the picture? The alligator swimming with turtles at Bald Head Island? Most of the time he leaves the turtles alone. They surround him at the pier, eager for droppings from the on-lookers; occasionally one of them will climb on his back. But sometimes, every now and then, that alligator turns bad and devours one of those turtles.

The correlation? Most times the posts here are fairly innocuous. Ramblings about me or observations about life. We "swim along" together, la la la. Then, wham! I turn on somebody or something.

In writing this blog and speaking my mind, sometimes I'm going to ruffle feathers. Sometimes I might even say something that hurts. I'm trying to be honest here, but also aware of the reader. And as my readership broadens, my awareness must be keener.

If I say something that irritates or hurts you here, please go to the comments and say something. You don't have to leave your name; there's an anonymous way to post. But don't ignore my emails and calls because you're mad. The silence is deafening.

Theme Post

By "theme post" I mean this will really get to the heart of my ability to "do it".

Last night I was putting together a business card for the Moore Square exhibit. And I couldn't figure out what to put on it. "Photographer"? Well, I'm not professionally a photographer. Besides, what if someone saw that and wanted me to photograph something? What if I'm not good enough to do that? What if what if what if????

Usually my photographs are taken in the heat of the moment, the way the sun is shining or the appearance of an interesting creature, the discovery of something by the side of the road. The only time I was asked to shoot, the pictures turned out really well. But that was just luck, right?

Until the last few years, I didn't think of myself as a creative type. I can balance a checkbook to the penny, file insurance and taxes, type letters, answer the phone. I do a pretty good job leading discussions groups. I'm a great planner, and can cut to the chase on a task.

Then I saw a San Diego sunset from a hotel balcony and started taking picture after picture with my point and shoot camera. I quit drinking and to fill the time started making cards and taking writing classes. And before I knew it, I considered myself a creative person.

But call myself a writer or a photographer as though it is a job that I do? Expectations follow.

I compromised by putting "my name/Photographer/'Picturing Moore Square'" on the business card. Photographer for a night; I can do that.

Preparing the exhibit has turned out to involve extensive research on how to do a gallery exhibit, interviewing people and making a DVD of the interviews, advertising, making posters and asking people to put them up - way more work than just framing and hanging photographs. It has been an intense learning experience.

After the exhibit is over, I'll probably have a better idea of how I stand as a photographer. Ready or not, I'm doing it. But I am very, very scared!

Sweet Music

One of the things that drew me to my church was the music. Lively, hand-clapping, dancing-in-the-aisle music. Music that brought a smile to my face that lasted for the entire hour.

But things have changed. And I don't like the way it's going.

So. What to do. There are people in the church who like the direction the music is taking. And the present choir director doesn't have the same music background as the old one. He's doing the kind of music he does best. He's organized and reliable. And the choir is now more organized and predictable.

Then there are people like me who are unhappy with the music. I haven't been to church for a month.

It's more than just being unhappy with the music as it is. It's more that I feel my minister has given up the vision of an exciting, vibrant music program. And if he doesn't have the vision anymore, there won't be anything different on the horizon.

When I first came to this church in 2004, the music is what swept me up. The minister's messages spoke to something deep inside, and the people were full of love. The minister is the same, the people for the most part are still there. But without the music, it's not enough.

I used to schedule the outside groups, and could bring in some of the music I loved. I turned away single performers in favor of groups with a lot of oomph like the Fairmont Gospel Revue. But now that the music director is doing the scheduling, there aren't even many of those groups.

Here's the question: Do I stick around and try to make a change back to what brought me there? Or do I say, "It's working for some people; why make waves?" and move on?

I miss my inspiring Sunday mornings in the worst way.

Reuniting

"As a younger woman, I didn't hesitate to bare my body. As an older woman, I just as freely bare my soul." -- Anonymous

My fourtieth high school reunion is this year, and many of us are starting to hook up via Facebook and email lists. The excitement about getting together is building and it seems more fervent this time around.

I've been corresponding with some of my old friends lately. I met a few girlfriends in Charleston a couple of weeks ago, and I've exchanged emails with one of the first guys I ever kissed. I'm finding that we have no trouble telling the most intimate and soul-baring details of our lives now that we're in our fifties. Right away we find ourselves discussing our drug and alcohol abuse, our secret childhood pain. And in these settings, I haven't felt any of the old insecurities I felt about being honest with myself and friends when I was in junior high and high school.

I've recognized a pattern in my life from these conversations, though, a habit of doing things that made me afraid. This is how I feel about the exhibit (I've decided to call it that, because it's not an opening in the true sense of the word). I'm afraid I'm in over my head. I'm afraid of what people will think of my photographs. I'm afraid no one will show up; I'm afraid that a lot of people will show up.

Is there anyone alive who is healthily immune to the opinions of others? Is this even possible? And if we have to live with this fear of judgment, how do we do it in a way that contributes to our growth and not our aversion to taking on new challenges?

Each little successful undertaking of something frightening gives me courage to try something else. But some days, I wonder if the need to feel fear motiviates me more than the need to feel challenged.

Whoa, doggies!

Today is the day it dawned on me that I really don't know alot about having a gallery opening. And I also found out that even if you try to ask the right way, all the things you ever wanted to know about a gallery opening can't be found on the Internet.

I have a beautiful gallery space and I've sent out postcards and posted on Facebook. I have my photographs named and framed, I have the video almost done, I have a play list for the ambient music. I've put together some information boards to tell about the artists and the Moore Square neighborhood. I have a menu and lots of wine; the other artist's husband is making home-brewed beer; a friend is making desserts.

But the thing I realized I didn't know today was this: How does one conduct the sale of photographs at an opening?

So I sucked it up and called an artist friend who loves and doesn't judge me and asked the question. I was embarrassed, really, to admit that I was having this great event and didn't know one of the most basic things about conducting it. She didn't laugh at me (thank you, dear Nancy) and went about giving me all the information I needed. And I had dinner with another friend who augmented my knowledge.

So now, even though I have a new to-do list, and quite extensive, I am prepared to make this show what it needs to be. I want it casual but professional, and I feel confident that on opening day I'll have all the tools to make it just that.

As always, my friends came through.

I Aimed High

I submitted a story of mine to the two literary publications I read the most: The Sun Magazine and Narrative Magazine.

I like submitting to Narrative for a couple of reasons. I can submit online; that makes it easy. And until I receive the rejection email, I can check on my submission, where I see "Under Consideration" by the title of my story. I like to think they're at their office, considering the various merits of my story. More likely though, is that some intern read the first line and moved on.

The Sun is another story. You must submit via snail mail and you hear back the same way. I have submitted one photograph that I thought might work (pictured above; I tweaked it in the darkroom) and the rejection for that was fairly immediate. But stories can take months to be accepted or rejected.

I need to quit being lazy about submissions. There are other places that I think might accept my work. But I've aimed high, and that took some nerve too.

Last month I heard Janet Burroway speak at Meredith College. She encouraged a young writer to submit her work to Narrative. I see names like Joyce Carol Oates, Richard Bausch, and Ann Beattie, and it seems almost impossible that they would accept the stories of an unknown. But she said they like to publish new writers. She also said she had been rejected by them. Both of those facts were comforting.

I'm not giving up. In fact, I think I'll double my efforts: four submissions this month. The odds are bound to be better, no?

What Did You Say?

Some of you know that I spent this past weekend with four friends from high school. And yesterday I had lunch with my college roommate. Both times I heard something that astounded me.

Almost ten years ago, I was in the hometown of one of the high school girls. We tried to hook up with her, and she had already left by the time we arrived at our meeting place. After the trip, she tried three times to contact me, by phone and email. For some reason I didn't get back to her all three times. We usually met in our hometown over the Christmas holidays, but for the next few years after that, my family gathered elsewhere.

My college roommate wanted to rekindle our friendship. We made a couple of attempts at getting together and I had to cancel both times. And though we've danced around each other - mutual friends and careers - we haven't gotten together.

Both of these people apologized to me this week because they thought I was angry and upset with them. And that my feelings were what kept us apart. This stopped me in my tracks, because feeling angry and upset with them was the farthest thing on my mind. But for several years, they have felt that I didn't want to be with them.

The simple truth is that their phone messages and email messages got left to be answered when I could give them more attention, and in the daily shuffle they got erased or deleted. And I carried on my little life of children and work and other friends and activities totally unaware that they were hurt by my neglect.

Girlfriends, listen up: I never hold a grudge. I never stay mad. So please oh please don't ever assume that I don't love you anymore. And this goes for all my friends, present and past. I'm not ignoring you, I'm not angry with you, I'm not irritated that we haven't seen each other in a while. I hold each and every friend, their problems, their families, the love that we've shared for umpteen million years as preciously as I hold my family. And most times, most times, if I'm in a snit, you'll know it. Quickly. Zip zip and then it's over.

I'm sorry that I hurt these people, and I'm going to be more conscious of responding to emails and calls in a timely manner. You can't let a good friend fall by the wayside. There are just too few of them.

Weekend in Pictures